had sighted two ships to the north, steering east, as far as her commander could tell. He had turned away rather than run up a hoist of signals, and he had acted wisely. Any small vessel would have run for it, if the two ships were the enemy.
But overnight all could change. It could be a waste of time: the ships might have changed tack completely, or Marvel ’s lookouts might have been mistaken, seeing only what they expected to see, as was often the case in these hit-and-run tactics.
He recalled Bolitho when they had first met, strengthened or troubled by a letter from Catherine, it was impossible to say. He had spoken unexpectedly of his childhood at Falmouth, and his awe of his father, Captain James Bolitho. He had said that he never doubted or questioned his vocation as a sea officer, although Avery thought privately that he was more uncertain now than at any other time.
Of the two reported ships he had said, “If they are the enemy, it is unlikely that they will know of Reaper’s recapture. Yet, if they are truly after the convoy from Bermuda, then I think they will come at us. They are becoming too used to success. This may be one gamble too many.”
He could have been speaking of somebody else, or some report he had read in his despatches or in the Gazette. Avery had looked around the spacious cabin, the tethered guns on either side, the books, and the fine wine cooler with the Bolitho motto on the top. The same place which had been blasted and blackened in that action, where men had fought and died, and survival had seemed like an accident or a miracle. If he returned to it now, he thought he would probably find Bolitho still sitting in the leather chair, reading one of his books, his fingers occasionally brushing against the letter which he would open again before he turned in. He ran his fingers through his hair and allowed the thought and the memory to intrude. As if she had suddenly appeared in this tiny hutch, the only place he could truly be alone.
Suppose they had not met? He shook his head as if to deny it. That had only been partly the cause. I am thirty- five years old. A lieutenant without prospects, beyond serving this man for whom I care more than I would have believed humanly possible. The same Lieutenant Scarlett, during one of his many heated exchanges, had suggested that he was only waiting for the reward of promotion, for a command of his own, no matter how small. And once that might have been true. There had seemed no other course, no hope for someone of his station; even the lingering stain of his court martial would not have been forgotten in the high offices of the admiralty.
I am not a round-eyed midshipman, or a young lieutenant with the world still for the asking. I should have stopped there. Stopped, and forgotten her… She was probably laughing about it at this very moment. Just as he knew it would break his heart, if he really believed that she was.
I should have known. A sea officer who had proved his courage in battle, and in bitter struggle to live after being wounded. But when it came to women he was a child, an innocent. But it would not disperse. He was still there, and it was like a dream, something so vivid and unplanned. Something inevitable.
The house had been almost empty; the full staff were only expected to arrive after Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay’s residence in Bath was finally closed and sold.
She had been so calm, amused, he thought, by his concern for her reputation, assuring him that the formidable housekeeper was completely loyal and discreet, and the cook, the only other person residing in the house, was all but deaf. He had often recalled that description, loyal and discreet. Did it have a double meaning? That her affairs were numerous? He rubbed his forehead. That she might be entertaining some other man even at this moment?
He heard footsteps outside, the click of Captain Merrick’s boots. He would be going around his sentries, inspecting places deep in the lightless hull where guards were mounted day and night. Another man with a private torment: unable to sleep, afraid of what dreams might bring. Avery smiled grimly. As well he might.
He opened the shutter of his solitary lantern very slightly, but instead of the small flame he saw the great fire, half red, and half white ash. She had led him by the hand across the room. “It will be cold tonight.”
He had attempted to touch her, to take her arm, but she had moved away, her eyes in shadow while she had watched him. “There is some wine on the table. It would be pleasant, don’t you think?” She had reached for the tongs beside a basket of logs.
“Let me.” They had knelt together, watching the sparks going up the chimney like fireflies.
She had said, “I must go. I have things to do.” She had not looked at him. Later, he had realized that she had been unable to.
The house had been like a tomb, the room facing away from the street and the occasional noise of carriage wheels.
Avery had had no experience with women, except for one brief incident with a French lady who had visited sick and wounded prisoners of war. There had been no affection, only need, an urgency which had left him feeling used and vaguely degraded.
He was still unable to believe what had happened in London.
She had appeared on the edge of the shadows, her body all in white, her feet bare on the carpet, the feet alone touched by the flickering firelight.
“Here I am, Mister Avery!” She had laughed softly, and when he had got up from the fire, “You spoke to me of your love.” She had held out her arms. “Show me.”
He had held her, gently at first, then more firmly as he had felt the curve of her spine under his hand, and had realized that beneath the flimsy gown she was naked.
Then, for the first time, he had felt her shivering, although her body was warm, even hot. He had tried to kiss her, but she had pressed her face into his shoulder, and repeated, “Show me.”
He had seized the gown, and in seconds had her in his arms again, unable to stop himself, even if his senses had permitted it. He had carried her to the great bed and had knelt over her, touching her, exploring her, kissing her from her throat to her thigh. He had seen her raise her head to watch him as he threw off his clothes, her hair like living gold in the light. Then she had laid back again, her arms spread out as if crucified.
“Show me!” She had resisted when he had gripped her wrists, and had twisted from side to side, her body arched as he had forced her down, and down, finding her, unable to wait, unwilling to restrain his desire.
She had been ready, and had drawn him to her, passionate, tender, experienced, enclosing him deeply in her body until they were both spent.
She had murmured, “That was love, Mister Avery.”
“I must leave, Susanna.” It was the first time he had called her by name.
“First, some wine.” She had lifted up on one elbow, making no attempt to cover herself. Nor did she resist when he touched her again; she reached out to provoke and arouse him once more, and he had known then that he could not leave her. At dawn’s first intrusion they had finally tasted the wine, and had crouched again by the fire, now all but dead in the faint grey light.
The rest had become blurred, unreal. Fumbling into his clothes again while she had stood watching him, quite naked but for his cocked hat. Then he had embraced her once more, unable to find the words, his mind and body still reeling from the impossible dream, which had become reality.
She had whispered, “I promised you a carriage.”
He had pressed her hair against his chin. “I shall be all right. I could possibly fly to Chelsea!”
The moment of parting had been painful, almost embarrassing.
“I am sorry if I hurt you, Susanna… I am… clumsy.”
She had smiled. “You are a man. A real man.”
He might have said, “Please write to me.” But he could not honestly say that he had. The door had closed, and he had made his way down the stairs to the street doors, where someone had placed and lighted a fresh stand of candles for his departure. Loyal and discreet.
There was a tap at the screen door, startling him, and he found Ozzard standing outside, a small tray beneath his arm. For a moment Avery though he must have been reliving it all aloud, and that Ozzard had heard him.
Ozzard said only, “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to see you aft.”
“Of course.” Avery closed the door and groped for a comb. Did Ozzard never sleep either?
He sat down again and grinned ruefully. She would be laughing, maybe, but remembering too.
Perhaps he had been a worse fool than he knew. But he would never forget.
He smiled. Mister Avery.
Captain James Tyacke stepped into the stern cabin and looked around at the familiar faces, his eyes accepting the light with surprising ease after the blackness of the quarterdeck, where little more than a tiny compass lamp